Six Stages
by teammccord
Summary: "You see her for the first time and she'll walk right past you like you are a crack in the wall and she is a skyscraper." Or the six stages of Henry falling for Elizabeth.
1. Stage One

_So this is a bit experimental. I stumbled across a post by Reena Bakir on Tumblr (blog rbcages) and thought it spoke perfectly to Elizabeth and Henry. This is my attempt at following six stages of Henry falling in love with Elizabeth. All credit for the quoted and italicized passages goes to the author, not me._

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 _"One. You see her for the first time and she'll walk right past you like you are a crack in the wall and she is a skyscraper with her head so high in the air and when you can't sleep you'll think about the way her eyes strayed into yours for a moment too long before breaking away and disappearing into the crowd of people."_

He's putting a stack of papers in his bag and getting ready to leave the lecture hall when he sees her for the first time. The class he's a TA for just ended, and slowly, students are filing out and those waiting for the next lecture are on their way in.

She enters the room, and he almost doesn't notice. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spots it — a crown of golden hair, piercing blue eyes, the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. He's immediately transfixed. She walks down the aisle of the lecture hall with purpose and he can't take his eyes off of her. Something deep inside him screams that _this is it_ and _she is it_ and he _has to go to her_ and he doesn't know where all of this is coming from. His gut is telling him to move but the rest of his body has decided to remain firmly rooted in place.

Seconds seem to stretch to minutes and at one point he hears a rustling sound followed by a thud. He doesn't react, beyond the fact that he's aware that he's dropped a full stack of papers but he couldn't care less because there's no way he can take his eyes off of her. She disappears from his view a few seconds later and he abruptly snaps out of his daze. He's still not quite sure what just happened — seeing a woman has never made him feel like this before — and he's sure that later, when he's out of the lecture hall, he'll replay every millisecond in his mind before he falls asleep that night.

Back in reality, he's suddenly acutely aware of the dropped papers and crouches down to gather them when he notices someone has bent down to help him.

It's _her_.

"I thought you might want some help with these—" she starts, and Henry's head snaps up.

"I, uh, thank you," he stammers, his eyes meeting hers. One look and he's enraptured, the blue of her eyes is deeper and more beautiful than anything he's ever seen before. He gulps, unsure of how to proceed.

They hold eye contact for a moment too long — he still swears, years later that sparks passed between them right then and there — and all of a sudden neither of them know what to do or where to look anymore, so they turn their attention back to the papers, arranging them into neat stacks. She hands him the ones she's gathered and smiles.

"Here." She stands and he gets up too, a second too late, because somehow she's making it hard for him to function like a normal person.

"Yeah, thanks again." He clears his throat, putting his papers back in his bag and realizes she's made no effort to move and find a seat. Henry gathers all his courage and tries out a quip. "So, you're waiting for me to drop more papers?"

"Actually," she replies, a coy smile forming on her lips that he can't help but find irresistible, "your stuff is in my seat."

 _Oh. Yeah … that makes sense._

"Well," he starts and glances at the clock (he's going out on a limb here in terms of flirtation but somehow this woman makes him flustered and brave all at the same time and he's hooked), "it's mine for another minute and thirty seconds."

She follows his gaze, looks back and cocks a brow. "I think you're down to a minute and fifteen now. You should use your time wisely, till the seat is mine."

Yeah, he really should, take advantage, get to know her while they're sharing the same few square feet of space. Except he has a million questions for her and his 75 seconds are dwindling. He decides to start with the basics.

"Well, I'd like to know who I'll be handing this seat over to."

She grins, having clearly taken the bait. "Elizabeth Adams. And who will I be inheriting it from?"

"Henry McCord, pleased to meet you." He sticks his hand out and she shakes it, and he swears a jolt of electricity passes between them. He looks up again — thirty seconds. Damn, he's already late.

"Well, Elizabeth, I hope you can guard our seat until I'm back, I have to go."

She looks a little disappointed at the prospect and he feels reassured that she doesn't seem to want the conversation to end as much as he does. "I'll do my best, Henry. And I'll give you an update on Thursday."

"Good." He grins, and so does she, and he finally grabs his bag and waves and walks out of the lecture hall, looking back to see her disappear into the crowd of people, having sat down at _their_ seat. He leaves the room feeling giddy and excited and unable to wait for Thursday, because he knows already that he wants to get to know Elizabeth Adams, wants to talk to her for more than 75 seconds next to a lecture hall chair.

But those 75 seconds are a start, and on Thursday, he plans to use 75 more.

 _tbc._


	2. Stage Two

_Thank you so much for all the lovely feedback on the first chapter! You've made my day :) Without further ado, here is stage two, I hope you enjoy!_

 _Again, all credit for the italicized and quoted passages goes to Reena Bakir, not me._

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 _"Two. She'll look both ways before telling you she loves you under her breath and when she hugs you her eyes scan the empty room as if the walls had eyes and ears and mouths that could give you away."_

It's two months in and ever since their first date Henry has been surer of this relationship than of anything else in his life so far. Confident that this is the woman he will spend the rest of his life with, certain of a future with her. He can't help but think of _forever_ whenever he's with her, and the thought fills him with a sense of contentment and calm he didn't expect it to.

It's two months in and he knows they're serious. She has a spare key to his apartment — they rationalized it when he gave it to her, said it was for convenience's sake, so she could escape Becky and all the talk of Jane Austen, but really, it was another example of the depth of their bond. They know things about each other that no one else is privy to, the result of countless late-night conversations where they'd opened up to one another, piece by piece.

It's two months in and Henry knows he loves her, deeply, irrevocably, with every fibre of his being. He loves Elizabeth Adams, who is impossibly strong and incredibly smart and probably far too good for him, but thanks to some lucky coincidence, he gets to hold her, and kiss her, and feel like she's hung the stars and he's being given a private tour of the universe.

It's two months in, and he hasn't told her he loves her yet.

To the outside world, Elizabeth is a skyscraper, sharp-witted, whip-smart. She's fierce, she's passionate, she's caring, but never vulnerable. Except with Henry.

He's managed to slowly break down her walls, brick by brick, exposing the version of herself she'd tried so desperately to keep hidden for over half a decade.

She begins by telling him little things: stories of boarding school and younger brothers and horses and strawberry milkshakes. Her childhood love of Peter Frampton and the Ramones, how she went through a phase where she dyed her hair the colour of charcoal, how mathematics _made sense_ and was logical and unquestionable and always fair.

Little things turned bigger — recollections of loss and longing and what it felt like to have your world upended before you were even ready to face it on your own — and bit by bit, she opened herself up to him in a way she'd promised herself to never do with anyone, ever again.

He's humbled by her honesty, honoured that she'd chosen him to trust, and determined not to make her feel like she isn't in control of this, of her own emotions. So he keeps his declarations of love silent, bubbling up inside, voiced only through kisses or glances or brushes of his knuckles against her cheek. Because he loves her enough to let her take this at her own pace and knows that whatever they have together is always enough.

They're lying under the covers in his bedroom, face to face, their breaths even. It's dark save for the moonlight, but just light enough to reflect in the whites of their eyes. He cups her cheek, strokes over her cheekbone with his thumb. She leans into his touch, reaches out to grasp his free hand and press it against his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the soft fabric of his t-shirt. She scoots a little closer, closes her eyes at the feeling of his warm breath on her skin.

"You're beautiful," he whispers.

Inside, he shouts _I love you_ at the top of his lungs.

He sees her eyes open and she blushes and he wonders what he ever did to deserve her. She's in a pair of old flannel pyjama bottoms and a UVa shirt, but to him, she's a vision. Always has been, always will.

She moves even closer, toes touching, legs tangling together. Gives him a once-over, tilts her head to the side as if she's making sure they're truly alone here, in his bedroom at half past one. She tucks her chin into the crook of his neck and whispers something under her breath — so softly he almost doesn't hear.

"I love you."

She pulls back a little immediately, ducks her head before scanning the room again, her face taking on a tense expression as she waits for his reaction. It's as if every corner of the room were trying to listen in but she wants so desperately for this to be private, just between them.

His face breaks into the widest smile she's ever seen and he pulls her toward him again, wrapping her in his arms and pressing kisses to her hair, her neck, her cheeks. Henry kisses her in earnest, hard and deep and he feels his brain going foggy. He's left with enough mental faculties to know he has to say it back first, has to react to the fact that _she_ _loves him_ and the feeling is more than he could ever have dreamed of. He pulls away, brushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"I love you too."

They both have tears pricking at their eyelids but they couldn't care less, lying there in the moonlight on his bed. It's perfect. She loves him. He loves her. It's all that matters.

She realizes he's the first person she's uttered the words to since the day her world shifted on its axis. She feels a sudden need to say them again. This time, she's grinning, and there are no stolen glances at corners of the room. She maintains eye contact as she says it, with all the sincerity in the world.

"You make me brave, Henry McCord. And I love you."

 _tbc._


	3. Stage Three

_Hello hello, so sorry for the absence, the holidays and life in general caught up with me. Thank you again for your absolutely lovely feedback to the last chapter, it made my day! Onto stage three; once again, the italicized passage is by Reena Bakir, not me. I hope you like it; reviews are my lifeblood._

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 _"Three. When she's curled up on your lap shaking with mismatched breaths you'll wonder how someone who looked like she carried mountains on her shoulders could crumble so easily in your arms like the tornado in her mind finally hit her and knocked her off her feet."_

It's a Tuesday in late March, and Virginia is uncommonly cold. Normally, spring would be here in full force, blossoms on every tree, patches of green everywhere. He's come to love Virginia in the spring, the burst of new life on every corner, the feeling that things are beginning again. It feels new and somehow bright and shiny. It feels hopeful.

He doesn't just love Virginia this spring because of the foliage. He loves Virginia this spring because she's in it. Being with Elizabeth feels bright and shiny and hopeful and full of life and the unspoken promise of many springs to come, seasons they can share together. He's practically giddy at the thought.

It's a Tuesday in late March, and he'd just run out to get coffee and her favourite cinnamon rolls — he wanted to surprise her, knew how much she appreciated the little things like warm pastries and the fact that someone cared enough to find out which ones she liked, a damn shame he thought, the fact that she'd not had someone like that in her life for so long. He unlocks the door and steps inside, careful to be quiet. He has it all planned, even bought a small bouquet of daffodils he saw at a florist on the way back, and he can't wait for the smile on her face.

It's his favourite sight in the world.

He expects her to be burrowed under the covers, attempting to block out all signs of daylight — a morning person, she is most definitely not — but instead she's curled up on her side, the covers half obscuring her face, clearly holding back muffled sobs.

He's at her side in an instant (the coffee and flowers and cinnamon rolls deposited on the nearest flat surface) running a hand over her cheek and trying to get her to look at him. When she does, the expression on her face breaks his heart. He's reminded suddenly of how young she really is — sometimes, her strength makes her seem invincible and Herculean and untouchable — how she's really just human like the rest of them, how sometimes, even she could be knocked clean off her feet.

She pushes herself away from him, takes a deep breath and steadies herself. She hasn't allowed herself to cry yet. He is in awe of her strength. He is in constant awe of her. She keeps enough pain for dozens in that small frame of hers, locked up in corners of her mind, to keep herself safe. He doesn't know details, not yet, but he has an inkling of what happened today, why she looks like a storm passed through her mind and knocked down all the walls she'd built up.

"It was six years ago today."

He nods, giving her arm an encouraging squeeze. This has to happen at her pace; she rarely volunteers details about her parents, especially from when she was a teenager. And so she tells him, bit by bit, all the while staring off into a corner of space — like the spot on his ceiling where the paint is chipping off holds the answers to all the questions she's been asking for the past six years.

She talks of studying, and teenage annoyance, little brothers and proud fathers, mothers who worried if their daughters were happy. Of a loving family, of being nicknamed "Euclid," of one split-second decision she will regret for the rest of her life.

"I stayed at home, Henry. I stayed and I asked for a strawberry milkshake and I wanted them to leave me alone and go."

And then, all of a sudden, the tornado hits and she's falling.

That Tuesday in late March is the first time she truly, fully, lets go. He holds her tightly, his hand drawing mindless circles on her back; he whispers sweet nothings in her ear and watches her crumble.

All the cracks she's let him make over the past year to a façade she's honed to perfection — an impossibly strong skin that hides the true depth of her pain — finally let it break open completely. She cries for the first time in years, proper tears that stain his shirt and leave her blotchy and sniffling, clinging to him because she's drifting out at sea and he's her lifeboat.

When she pulls back, there's a weary smile on her face, and he thinks she might have cried so much that she just can't manage any tears anymore. He knows the feeling — he spent many of the nights after Tom slipped under the ice buried under his covers and sobbing — and he pulls her close and drops kisses to her hair.

"Tell me about them," he encourages, hoping he hasn't gone too far. He runs his fingers through her hair, whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

"My dad would have loved you," she says, and he smiles. "An ethics and religious scholar as his daughter's boyfriend? Any professor's dream."

Her eyes light up as she talks about them — her father's penchant for presidential history, her mother's quiet strength, both of them heroes to their daughter — and his heart breaks for her as he thinks that they'll never be able to see what an incredible woman she has become and all the things she will accomplish in her future.

…

It's the next year, a Wednesday in late March. Virginia is not as cold this year, the telltale signs of spring are as apparent as ever. He still feels bright and shiny and new and excited about the season. But today, he's overcome with a solemn feeling, his fingers laced tightly with hers as they stand there, in a graveyard, in silence.

She moves her head from its place on his shoulder and takes a deep, steadying breath. She lets go of his hand, steps forward and places the bouquet of daffodils on the gravestone, turns around after a minute and smiles tentatively. He reaches out his hand and she takes it again, squeezes it.

"Thank you for coming with me," she whispers. He presses a kiss to her cheek and turns his lips up in a small smile. Most of her walls are gone now, at least in front of him, having been replaced instead by a quiet kind of strength she carries inside, because having your whole world turn upside down before you've lived two decades will give you that.

He's proud of her, every single day, for carrying on, for letting him in, for _being her_. She's blossomed, since last spring, grown into herself, begun to come to terms with her loss and remember them with a smile. She tells stories now, sometimes, laughs about happy memories and he grins when she does. He feels like he knows them know, through their daughter, and he sometimes sees traits in her that mirror the stories he's been told.

She steps toward the grave again, and he gives her space, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He makes the sign of the cross and sends up a prayer for them, thanking them for raising such a beautiful, kind person and promising them he'll take care of her and remind her every day that she is loved.

When she comes back, he takes her hand again and they walk away from the grave. The flowers planted all over the cemetery are blooming, and the bright and shiny feeling is back again. He wraps his arm around her shoulder and she smiles at him.

"Let's go home, Henry."


	4. Stage Four

_Hi again? Thank you all for your patience, incredibly kind reviews and support for this story and my shoddy update schedule. Hugs to you all. Here's stage four: credit for the poem to Reena Bakir, reviews appreciated as always._

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 _"Four. In half-light she'll run her fingers over your arms like she is reading words carved into your skin, binding them together into the perfect metaphor and you'll hear it playback in your head at 4am when your head runs wild with thoughts of her."_

He's lying in bed, unable to sleep, his mind filled to the brim with her. Elizabeth has been in the library for what seems like weeks — she has a very important term paper deadline coming up and Henry swears she and her study group have earned themselves permanent accommodations in the stacks — and he misses her. He misses lying tangled up with her at night, talking about everything and nothing, revelling in the togetherness and utterly content in the cocoon of his covers.

He misses the feeling of her body pressed up against his own, their limbs fitting together so perfectly that it's hard to tell where one of them starts and the other one ends. Misses whispering in her ear, hushed declarations of love and lust and thinking _home home home_ every time he's with her.

It's in those moments when they are alone save the moonlight that she's boldest in her discovery of his body, all the curves and scars and ripples of muscle. He swears she must have him memorized from head to toe now, with the number of times she has catalogued his form. (He has to admit, with a smile, that he's probably guilty of the same).

It's so vivid that he can almost feel it — her hands brushing across his arms and chest, tracing patterns, her touch light but setting his skin on fire. He can almost see it — her alabaster skin glowing in the moonlight as her fingers trace up and down his frame; she's drawing and using him as her canvas, painting a masterpiece.

There's the birthmark on his ankle, the one she thinks looks like a pickle (he burst into laughter at her first assessment, because, really, so many other things also look like a pickle), the inexplicable patch of freckles by his hipbone, his abs from ROTC training — she especially likes those — the hollow of his collarbone.

There's his heart, which she presses tiny kisses to when she passes it, his Adam's apple (which is most definitely bobbing by the time she reaches it, partly from anticipation, and partly because her open displays of affection still make him choke up sometimes), the ticklish spot behind his ear.

He knows she loves to press featherlight kisses to his jawbone and cheeks, and he'll reach for her in those instances, pull her lips close for a proper, drugging kiss, like she's his oxygen and he's a drowning man.

After he's distracted her sufficiently, she'll return to the task at hand, carding her fingers through his hair and pressing one last kiss to his forehead.

It's his turn then, to map her body and commit it to memory.

Those moments of togetherness are forever seared in his mind, and he calls on them at four, hears them play back, can _almost but not quite_ feel them and he aches for her, in a physical way he didn't think possible. His head runs wild with thoughts of her, and it's never enough, never a replacement for her curled into his side, breathing evenly, her head tucked into the crook of his neck like it's where it belongs, has always belonged, _will always belong_.

He tosses and turns and cannot force himself to sleep because it's been five nights and he's not used to this anymore. It was easier, before, when she still had a dorm to call home to. Now, she's on the home stretch toward graduation, about to start a Master's. Her things are in his closet — correction, _their_ closet — her books crowd the shelves and he has never felt happier in his life.

He knows deployment is around the corner, and he's determined not to waste a single night until then sleeping alone when they could be sharing the same thirty square feet.

His thoughts run in circles and always back to her and he can't stop thinking and tossing and turning and sleep is fleeting and _damn it why isn't she here_ —

The door creaks, softly, and he hears socked feet pad down the hall. He holds his breath, he really doesn't know why, but he knows she's here. His instinct, at least when it comes to Elizabeth, rarely fails him.

Sure enough, she cracks open the door to their bedroom, tiptoes inside and makes quick work of pulling off her sweater and jeans. She's left in her underwear and a white t-shirt, her hair tied up in a bun.

When she lets it fall loose, it catches the moonlight and he almost lets out a gasp but he stops himself and shuts his eyes as she slips under the covers. Instinctively, she slides toward him, fully prepared to wrap herself around him. He senses her hesitation, that she thinks he's asleep so he tries to pretend like he's turning in his sleep and gravitating toward her.

He's nearly there when she meets him halfway, muttering under her breath. "Weren't fooling anyone with that, _roommate._ Missed me?"

He cracks one eye open, then two, as a blush creeps up his cheeks. Maybe he was, missing her, unable to sleep. Yeah, he most definitely was.

She giggles, softly, presses a kiss to his lips and moulds herself to him. It's undeniable. They just fit.

"Yeah," he whispers, "can't sleep without you."

"Softie."

He grunts and she grins and honestly, he's not even ashamed of his level of infatuation and love for this impossible woman anymore so he just presses a kiss to the crown of her hair.

"Missed you. Paper done?"

"Yeah."

"'S good."

"Hmm."

"Sleep."

"Love you."

"You too."

And so they drift off to sleep together at half-past four, tangled up, minds and dreams running wild with each other.


	5. Stage Five

_Ahh, we're hitting the home stretch, sort of. You've been such lovely readers throughout this process, and I'm so excited to share the last two stages with you. Again, poem by Reena Bakir, characters by CBS, wild speculation as to their pre-show storylines courtesy yours truly. Reviews are my lifeblood._

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 _"Five. You'll find a safe haven on rooftops and abandoned rooms where she'll set fire to your insides with hushed breaths between kisses planted perfectly on your lips and make you wonder how dangerous it is to play with wild flames while your body is made of paper."_

"Shh," she hisses, pressing her finger to her mouth in mock sternness, before pulling him into an alcove, ducking behind a pillar as the janitor moves down the hall with his cart, whistling as he walks.

She presses up against him whilst they're hiding, and he uses it as an opportunity to press a kiss to her cheek, breathing in the sweet smell of lavender and vanilla and _Elizabeth_ that he can never quite place but will always recognize in an instant. He's distinctly aware of the fact that she's pressed very closely to him, trying not to giggle, and he knows the moment should be light and fun and adventurous.

His insides are saying something entirely different, that she's setting his skin on fire and being near her is addicting, a mix of love and want and hope all wrapped up in one. He can't get enough of her, of being near her — he knows being in her presence is something he'll never tire of, ever.

That's precisely what's landed him in his current situation, hidden behind a pillar with his girlfriend in the library. _It'll be fun_ , she'd said, _romantic, adventurous_ , sneaking into the stacks late at night, perusing the collections and the archives all by themselves, staying well past closing hours.

As much as he's fully here for the idea of making out with her in the stacks, pressed up against bookcases, like in all the movies, Henry is too much of a rule-follower to not have that nagging feeling of _this isn't allowed_ floating around the back of his mind.

But Henry also knows his girlfriend, and that she knows exactly how he is with rules, and that she is very comfortable bending them or outright ignoring some. Which makes this situation all the more fun for her.

He sees her face split into a grin and _damn it, he's done for_ , he thinks as she pulls him by the hand to the back of the library, where they're hidden behind bookshelves. She's crafty that way, knows him inside out by now and he's pretty much helpless when it comes to resisting her.

Elizabeth has a surprisingly rebellious streak, he learned early on, and he loves it because it's not something you'd think upon meeting her. But sure enough, his straight-A, brilliant, compassionate, kind girlfriend used to be a bit of a rebel. Sneaking out of her aunt and uncles, dyeing her hair pink one summer (and straight back to blonde two days later because she _hated_ it), going to rock concerts and sneaking cheap bottles of champagne into her dorms in high school to celebrate turning eighteen.

He's reminded of the night she told him she used to sneak to the roof of her boarding school dorm with Joey and debate the future of the world, which she said seemed easier to deal with for the both of them than their own lives — filled with loss and incredible responsibility — ever would.

And then, one night, a few weeks later, she decided to find them a suitable roof at UVA, and they ended up on the roof of the history department, overlooking the grounds, a bottle of cheap wine between them. It was spring, nearing the start of summer, and the cool breeze felt lovely after a hot day.

They talked about everything and nothing at all, her head leaning on his shoulder, staring out into the distance and passing the wine back and forth. It was those moments that made him certain that she was it, that this was the woman he wanted to spend his life with.

He thinks sometimes of sharing a home with her someday, of raising their children together, of watching Jeopardy as octogenarians, of teaching their children how to ride horses at the tender age of five. The thought fills him with a sense of peace and belonging, of _home_ , because she is. Elizabeth has become home.

That night started with talking and ended with bruising kisses and stolen glances and his skin being set on fire in the best way possible, because they couldn't (would probably never be able to) keep their hands off of one another. It was equal parts romantic and incredibly hot, and he thought that night that maybe some rules were better left broken.

He can tell she's banking on the same logic working tonight, as she backs him into a bookshelf and begins to press kisses to the base of his throat, his mouth, his cheek, the corner of his lips. He knows she's trying to distract him, get him onboard with the idea of essentially defiling a place of knowledge and break about a dozen rules, but he can't seem to care with the feeling of her lips on his.

It makes all coherent thoughts go out the window and all he can think is to pull her closer, thread his hands through her hair and kiss her with all that he's worth. So he does just that, in the back of the stacks in the library, utterly lost in her and the fact that she makes him reckless.

He loves the fact that they bring out new sides of each other. She makes him adventurous, and spontaneous, willing to abandon at least a few of his cradle-Catholic tendencies. He's seen her open up since they got together, acknowledge that with him, she can be vulnerable and bearer soul. He loves that about their relationship, that they push each other, but hold each other up every step of the way.

He loves her, more than he's ever loved another person, and he thinks he would happily break all the rules if it meant he got to be close to the love of his life and feel her set fire to his insides with the lightest of touches.

Damn this woman and the things she does to him, he thinks, smiling and pulling her in for another kiss. He wouldn't have it any other way.


	6. Stage Six

_Hello! This is it, we've come to the end! It's been a wild ride and I cannot thank you all enough for your support along the way, it's meant the world. This last chapter is broken up into three parts (aka Henry talks to God/goes to confession parts 1, 2 and 3). All my knowledge of Catholicism is based on personal experience and seven years of Catholic school. Please forgive any mistakes. As always, enjoy and reviews are my lifeblood._

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 _"Six. You'll stare God right in the eye and tell him that if loving her was a sin then you want no place in heaven with him because the way her lips fit perfectly on your neck is a type of paradise you'll never forget."_

 _Bless me Father, for I have sinned._

He does the sign of the cross and slips into the church pew, staring up at the ornate ceiling in the hope that it'll provide him with some sort of divine inspiration. He really doesn't know why he decided to come here today, to church on a Thursday, out of the blue.

He's admittedly a cradle Catholic, what, with the Irish roots and the Pittsburgh childhood, and the mother who never, ever takes the name of God in vain. Bless her, he thinks sometimes, when he curses under his breath and knows she'd be horrified.

He still tries to go to church on Sundays (and honestly makes it about twice a month, and he does feel guilty the other two), he carries a medal of St. Francis in his wallet. He's getting a Masters in theology for crying out loud, and he still gives up meat for Lent every year.

But he's not the altar boy from his childhood anymore either, how could he be, after six years of learning about theology and ethics and the horrible things that humans can do to each other in the name of religion. It's not that he's a sceptic, per se, it's more that he looks at the faith he's lived for so long more critically, and he's open to seeing its faults.

He has an interesting relationship with Catholicism now, he thinks, as he starts a makeshift prayer, because none of the standard ones seem to fit with what he's trying to get across.

He's never subscribed to the whole "no birth control," "only marry another Catholic," "be staunchly pro-life," "no sex before marriage" kind of thing. He always considered himself progressive, sure in his beliefs, confident that he could practice Catholicism in a way that aligned with his own morals.

The whole thing seemed to work out pretty well for him, well, until Elizabeth.

It wasn't like he hadn't dated (or was a virgin, thank you very much) before he met her, it was more that all the things he'd sorted out in his mind were very much theoretical, not yet put into practice.

But with her, he can see his future starting to take shape, in a concrete way that excites and terrifies him in equal measure and for Christ's sake (sorry, mom), he's gonna marry this girl and he's a little freaked out. It's why he walked straight past the confessional and into a pew, because he does not need a middle-aged celibate man talking to him about the sanctity of marriage right now.

He's stumbling through an inner monologue, one he wishes could turn into a dialogue because, _God, I could really use some advice right about now_ , slipping his hand into his jacket pocket and running his thumb over the smooth velvet of the ring box that sits inside. It's been weighing down his jacket for what feels like forever (actually, more like three weeks, but who's counting) and Henry suddenly feels himself confronted with the fact that they're about to link their lives together, forever.

All he ever really learned about relationships and marriage (before he started dating himself) was from church and his parents and he feels a little woefully inadequate when it comes to the prospect of doing it himself. He wants God's guidance in this, truly does, but he doesn't want his parents' marriage.

He wants marriage with Elizabeth, who's not religious but the best person he knows, and he wonders absentmindedly if, technically speaking, he's living in sin right now. Probably, he thinks, suppressing a chuckle. But if this — being with his absolute favourite person in the whole world, his other half — is sin, Henry thinks he wouldn't mind being a sinner at all.

Not when sin means Elizabeth's hushed breath in his ear, her lips on his neck, her hands in— he stops his train of thought because he's in a church, for crying out loud. He doesn't even know precisely why, but he finishes whatever rambling monologue of a prayer he started and makes the sign of the cross again.

He slips back out of the pew with more questions than answers, the ring still weighing heavily in his pocket. _God, help me_ , he thinks.

 _Bless me Father, for I have sinned._

He's properly sitting in the confession booth this time, holds his breath when the priest nods and pushes back the screen.

"Henry, long time no see," Fr. Thomas says, giving him a once-over and Henry swears the other man can sense that he wants nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow him whole because he's screwed up so badly and he knows he's about to be admonished for it.

He deserves it though, unequivocally. And he needs advice, needs to know how to fix this.

"What brings you here today?"

 _Well, I think I might have wrecked the relationship that meant the most to me in the world and broken my best friend's heart, so I'm pretty goddamn screwed and need help_ , he thinks, but he knows he can't say that so he sighs and runs a hand over his face, letting out a breath.

"I ran. I got cold feet and I left Elizabeth sitting in my apartment and I told her I needed room to breathe and be away from her."

He did need room, it's true. He felt everything hit him in a wave, out of absolutely nowhere, on a Tuesday. They were cooking dinner — which meant he was cooking and she was supervising — and Elizabeth had picked up one of his scripture textbooks and was asking him about Thomas Aquinas, sitting on his kitchen counter in his sweater and fuzzy socks and it hit him like a ton of bricks.

It was suddenly all too much, too domestic, and real and he was overcome with a gut-punching feeling of inadequacy. He wouldn't ever be able to provide for her. He was about to leave for active duty, for God's sake! What if something happened? God forbid, he left her and never came back and she had to go through the pain of losing someone again?

His mind was extraordinarily good at coming up with worst-case scenarios, and Henry felt his head spin. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, had to get away and sort himself out. So he left her sitting there, in her pink fuzzy socks (the irony that he feet were warm and protected whilst his were apparently freezing is not lost on him), with a pot of pasta about to boil over, grabbed his coat and ran out into the chilly October air.

He's felt like a complete asshole ever since, and to be quite honest, he knows he deserves it. He knows he can't call his family about this: his father will say he did the right thing, Maureen will laugh and his mother will sob (one broken heart is plenty for one day, McCord), so his base instinct kicks in and he goes to church.

It's quiet inside on a Tuesday night, but Fr. Thomas is there, puttering about. It's how he finds himself in a confessional, praying for forgiveness and kicking himself for being such a fool.

"God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell…"

 _Bless me Father, for I have sinned._

He thinks it, and chuckles to himself, because _honestly_ , if this is sinning, he'll happily bypass heaven just so he can be with her. They're curled up under the covers of his bed — soon to be _their_ bed — and he cannot find a better word to describe how this feels but utter bliss.

Early morning sunlight is seeping in through the curtains and bathing her in a golden light, and Henry can't believe his luck, that he gets to spend the rest of his life with the most gorgeous, intelligent, kind person on the planet. The light catches the ring on her finger and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, turning so he can be closer to her and take it all in.

He can't help but marvel at the way they just _fit_ , like puzzle pieces when his lips find her cheek and hers plant kisses up and down his neck. The way they bring out the best in one another, complement each other and almost work together as one.

He still counts his lucky stars that she picked up his dropped papers, all those months ago, and lets him love her, and somehow took him back after what he is sure was the biggest fuck-up of his entire life.

He can feel her stir and stretch and he's not even remotely embarrassed by the size of his grin right now, because sleepy, just woken up Elizabeth is a sight he will never tire of.

She meets his eyes and smiles, canting her head up so she can press a kiss to his lips, lazy and languid and like they've got forever. Which they do, and he still can't quite believe it.

"What are you thinking about?" she murmurs against his lips and he brings a hand to cup her cheek and look her in the eyes.

"I'm thanking God that I get to wake up next to you every day for the rest of our lives." She grins at that, and he melts a little at the fact that he can see tears pricking at her eyelids. He's always amazed when he can tell that she's as head over heels in love with him as he is with her.

"You always did have a way with words, Mr. McCord." She giggles, and kisses him and he swears he's the luckiest person in the whole world.

"I love you, Elizabeth Adams," he says when he rolls them so he's perched on top of her, husky and low and like it's the most important thing he's ever said. Because it is.

She responds in kind, and they lock eyes and the world comes to a halt for a few precious seconds.

Henry McCord loves Elizabeth Adams, and she loves him back. It's all that matters, he thinks, and if they're living a life of sin, he quite frankly doesn't care.


End file.
